Having a Few and Getting Some (an excerpt)
I don’t know if I should be ashamed or proud of Having a Few and Getting Some (my e-book), but here is an excerpt:
Theory vs. Application
When I turned 16, my dad got me an older woman for my birthday.
By “older woman,” I mean she was just a few years older than me, and she was really nice looking. Her name was Meg. At least, she told me her name was Meg. She had long, flowing dark hair, and she smelled really good. My dad told me I had three hours to do whatever I wanted to do with Meg, and then he left us alone in the house.
A few days later, my dad stormed into my bedroom, furious. He had found out that I had asked Meg to drive me to the comic book store. I hadn’t gotten my driver’s license yet, and I was a couple weeks’ behind on the new comics, and my parents were tired of driving me, and it had been my birthday, that was what I had wanted to do.
“Do you know how much money I spent on her?” my dad yelled. “If all you wanted to do was drive to the comic book store, I could have done that myself.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “But you wouldn’t have dressed like Wonder Woman and fooled around with me in the comic book stacks.”
No, my dad didn’t really get me an older woman for my birthday.
I tell this story because it always gets people’s attention. I’m a nondescript guy with a slow, dull voice. I don’t have any charisma. I’m probably more intelligent than most people, but it doesn’t always do much good because people don’t listen to me when I talk. I can discuss politics, sports, religion, science, history, and comic books, but nobody cares what I have to say… until I tell them about my older woman.
My First Beer
When I was fifteen, my dad gave me a six-pack of beer and told me to drink it in my room.
“I know teenagers drink nowadays,” he said. “So I’d rather you did it here where I know you can’t get into any trouble.”
I’d never had beer before. My friends went to parties, but I collected comic books, and guys who bought comics didn’t get invited to parties where kids drank beer. I figured this was my chance to learn how to be a cool kid, so I downed a bunch of the beer at one time and felt my first buzz.
Then I threw up in my bedroom.
Then I threw up in the hallway.
Then I threw up in the bathroom (missing the toilet).
To my credit, I started cleaning up my messes myself. My dad stepped out (of the living room, I think).
He took one look at the mess in the hallway and said, “The next time I give you some beer, drink it at someone else’s house.”
My dad didn’t get me beer for my birthday either.
Like I mentioned, people think I’m a boring guy, and I usually don’t give them much reason to believe otherwise. I don’t like talking in large groups. I don’t talk to others until I’m really comfortable around them, and that can take a while, so there’s no reason for anybody to think I’m that interesting. I get along with almost everybody, so there’s no reason for anybody to hate me either. I’m not that interesting, and I’m not hated. I’m a person that inspires no emotional reaction at all.
Who Would It Be?
It’s a question that makes most (heterosexual) men uncomfortable: If your life depended on having an intimate physical experience with another guy, who would that guy be? Most men would stammer and hesitate and then reluctantly name someone who would punch him out if he ever found out about it.
I wouldn’t hesitate. The guy’s name is Craig (I’ve forgotten his last name). I was a sophomore in high school, and he was a senior (that’s not the reason). He had a symmetrical face, perfect teeth, and a surfer’s tan (that’s still not the reason). He also had a rare charisma and the ability to tell spellbinding stories that held the attention of every student in my high school. He transcended cliques. Jocks, nerds, burnouts, band geeks, hoodlums, preppies (Craig was a preppy), it didn’t matter. When Craig performed his stories, everybody else became mesmerized. Whether it was the classroom, the cafeteria, a basement party, the fast food parking lot, none of that mattered.
Craig’s dad was in the air force, so he had moved around a lot before settling into our own semi-military town. Craig was a new kid, so his story telling was a novelty. But I’ve always been critical of books and movies (maybe too much so), and after listening to dozens of his anecdotes, I realized something.
All of Craig’s stories were the same. There was a party in some weird location, somebody threw up, and Craig always got some. These stories were the opposite of my own life because I threw up a lot and never got any. Craig’s stories always involved kids who didn’t go to our school (his relatives, friends, and students from his previous schools), so nobody could check his veracity.
WARNING: When you’re in high school, never declare that you want to check another guy’s veracity. I almost got punched out for that. Just say “truthfulness” instead.
When I suggested to others that Craig was making up stories, some other guy said, “You’re just jealous because he’s getting some and you’re not.”
That ended the argument.
It was true. Craig got a lot (I was never involved), and I never got any (except for the older woman, but that never happened, so she didn’t count, even though an alarmingly high number of people believed the story). But despite the similar formula in each of Craig’s anecdotes, the stories never got old (except for me). And this made me admire Craig even more. I probably learned more from Craig than anybody else I’ve ever met.
Here’s that one all-important lesson I learned from Craig: if you’re a (boring) guy and you need to hold a crowd’s attention, all you have to do is talk about having a few and getting some.
END OF EXCERPT!!!
If you like Having a Few and Getting Some so far, it’s available on the Amazon Kindle for $2.99. I think the sample that Amazon provides you goes further into the book, so if you’re not sure if you want to buy this or not, you can still read more for free.
Hey, I always take advantage of the samples, so you should too.